of humour made him an admirable companion, and it was this quality,
perhaps, which enabled him to receive Goldberger's thrust with a
good-natured smile.

"We've got our living to make, you know," he said. "We make it as
honestly as we can. What do _you_ think, Simmonds?"

"I think," said Simmonds, who, if he possessed an imagination, never
permitted it to be suspected, "that those little cuts on the hand are
merely an accident. They might have been caused in half a dozen ways.
Maybe he hit his hand on something when he fell; maybe he jabbed it
on a buckle; maybe he had a boil on his hand and lanced it with his
knife."

"What killed him, then?" Godfrey demanded.

"Poison--and it's in his stomach. We'll find it there."

"How about the odour?" Godfrey persisted.

"He spilled some of the poison on his hand as he lifted it to his
mouth. Maybe he had those cuts on his hand and the poison inflamed
them. Or maybe he's got some kind of blood disease."

Goldberger nodded his approval, and Godfrey smiled as he looked at
him.

"It's easy to find explanations, isn't it?" he queried.

"It's a blamed sight easier to find a natural and simple